


Pop My Tomato

by orphan_account



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Erogenous zone play, Hair curl play, M/M, Sensation Play, humping
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-12-26
Updated: 2011-12-26
Packaged: 2017-10-28 04:19:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/303664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spain brushes Romano's hair, with educational outcomes. Shotacon, exploitation of erogenous zones. THIS WAS written at 2am by an inexperienced Spamano writer. Have fun.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pop My Tomato

It is happening again.

There is that tickle, that _damn little jolt_ that springs from the very tip of Romano’s penis and shoots up his spine, to that _one place_ in his hair and back down again. He hardly even has time to recover from the alien sensation before Spain is pulling the brush through his hair anew and that weird feeling low in his belly comes back full force.

If Romano hadn’t bumped the mantel piece while he had been cleaning the hearth earlier that morning, knocking the kerosene lamp that Spain only kept for looks and sending the glass base smashing over his head causing the oil to run over his scalp and mix with the soot settling in is hair, he would not have agreed to this. To sitting naked in a warm bath filled with shiny soap bubbles and remnants of the filth from his hair; his caretaker pouring buckets of water over his head and scrubbing at it and complaining that the oil wasn’t coming out.

“Are you seriously that dumb? Water and oil don’t mix.”

“Oh, I know that, Roma, but I thought that maybe if the oil was clinging to the soot enough I could wash them both out simultaneously…”

Romano resists the urge to whip his head around and stare at the bastard incredulously, because then he would see the blush painting his cheeks and neck  and tease him, and his head would hurt from moving it so suddenly because he is still a little concussed. Romano doesn’t even consider that Spain might be stalling; trying to keep his charge in need of his help for a little longer. After all, the Italian is so stubborn he rarely accepts the fact that he might not be able to do some things himself.

So the moody brunette just glares at the tiles, decorated with painted red and yellow carnations, and allows Spain to battle with one clump of oil-soot right next to that one dumb curl with his soft-bristled brush of doom. _The bringer of doom to Southern Italy,_ he thinks.  Of the doom that’s settling right between his legs and will be visible if he so shifts the water, shifts the bubbles that are scantily covering him.

He tries to think of weird things, like France getting it on with a tomato or Veneziano in Hungary’s underclothes. He tries to think of sad things, like when Spain would disappear with his ships in conquest and leave him alone in this big house with nothing but his shadows for company. Shadows that his mind would slowly turn to monsters and ghouls as the sun set.  But then he remembers just how _handsome_ Spain was back then, not that he isn’t now but- wait, what was he thinking?

“Ah, you hair is just so sticky, Roma.” _Great choice of words, idiot._ “It’ll take a while to get it all out. So just relax for a little while, alright? Do you want me to sing you a song or tell you a story? You haven’t asked for a story in so long.”

A while? That meant lots of brushing, didn’t it? That meant lots of… Oh, God. And now Spain was _gripping_ his _curl,_ brushing from the roots to the very tip, unravelling it, trying to get rid of the filth. It was like being squeezed in your most ticklish place, but slowly, and not painfully, with the fingers gripping you flexing a little, and it was just _brilliant._ It was like having a pleasure-pain ache, like when you lost a tooth and you couldn’t help swishing your tongue over the metallic gap and revelling in the dull throb received.

Romano loves it. The feeling, that is. Not that he gets it from such an obvious and public place. He wishes it was his bellybutton or sides or his thighs, even his knees that were so sensitive he could orgasm from it without even touching his erection.  

But he loves the feeling when it is late at night and he is alone in his bed wrapped up in one of Spain’s unwashed shirts that he nicked from laundry room. Wrapped up in the smell of spicy tomato sauce and masculinity and soil from the garden with his curl just inside the arm sleeve, using it to grip the errant tress of hair and slide it over and over and over again until he just couldn’t take it anymore and-

“Eh, Roma~? Were you not listening to Boss again?”

Snapped from his reverie, Romano makes a noise halfway between surprise and lust and he remembers back to that night last month. It wasn’t his idea to soil his carer’s shirt with the evidence of his pleasure initially. Spain had left on another trip for _his_ bosses and Romano was just feeling really lonely, dammit, and it was storming a little and when shadows danced on the walls of his room, distorted by the thick rivulets of precipitation, his child mind changed the dark shapes into something more fearful than the leaves outside. He just wanted comfort.

“So what would you like, a song or story?”

“I’d like you to get this stuff out of my hair, idiot.”

“But I’m already doing that~”

“Do it faster.” Romano refuses to blush at how dirty that sounds, but he thinks Spain’s already heard the vulgar side of his words because he goes silent for a couple of moments before clearing his throat. Romano has come to learn that when Spain goes quiet then clears his throat he’s thinking something perverted, from all the times when France has whispered something into his ear and he’s given that same reaction. France is a pervert as well, so it would only make sense.

“Would you like to chat, then? Are there any girls that…?”

Spain gives an extra firm tug on his curl, brushing it backwards from the root and pulling it at the exact same time as he asks, and the gasp that the little Italian has been trying to keep secured in his throat escapes. Girls? Well, he did like boobs a little, and the ones he saw down at the market in their billowy dresses were kind of cute, but girls whined and winged…

“No! I don’t want to talk!” Swiftly, Romano brings his knees up to his chest in a sweeping motion, effectively covering his raging hard on brought about by the attention to his hair. It also gives him something to bite into when loud, wanton moans threaten to spill forth from his mouth.

“Hmm, OK then, Roma. But know that you can talk to me about what ever; I won’t think it’s weird or anything. Promise.”

Romano just buries his face further into the gap between his knees. Spain is avoiding his curl. It’s driving him nuts. Spain brushes around the base, holds it gently in his deft fingers but won’t pull or brush it or _anything_! He’s taken to humming something, Romano can’t think of what, as the Spaniard frees another clump from his hair and rinses the brush next to his hip, filling the small wooden bucket with water and dumping it over his head, but not before warning him, suggesting that he close his eyes. But the Italian doesn’t really want to close his eyes because he knows what images are going to flash behind them when he does.

It keeps going. Spain keeps humming and removing the grime from his hair, all the while ignoring that one spot. Romano kind of wishes that he would pay it some attention, because he knows how sensitive it can get if it’s ignored when he’s aroused. Even a single touch can send him over the edge. The brunette’s scared that if Spain decides to stroke it and laugh as it sticks straight up from the water-slicked mop of his hair after five minutes on working out the soot from the nape of his neck he’ll be gone, moaning and palming at himself as his seed swirls in the water, mingling with the floating oil and black dust.

And that dumb bastard will see it all and be utterly _disgusted_ by him and tell him how he wishes that he had Veneziano instead, because _he_ would never swear as he came. He’d just blush and moan and be totally, _totally cute._ Romano would just be vulgar and gross. Because he always is when compared to that stupid North Italy.

Spain’s fingers gently massage Romano’s scalp in small circles as he pours bucket after bucket of water onto his hair. Romano opens his eyes and glances to his side and sees all the black floating in the water. It’s yuck, but the Italian isn’t able to ponder it for long because Spain is scratching and rubbing his hair just behind his ear, and a series of delightful shivers are racing up and down his spine.

Digging his nails into his thigh, gnawing on the inside of his cheek, Romano fights and fights with himself to keep his moan sufficiently supressed in his throat. It’s not just his curl that’s setting him off now; it’s his entire head of hair. He can’t feel when Spain rolls the tips in his fingers but he can feel the slight pull in his scalp, so maybe it’s not his hair but his scalp that’s overly sensitive, but Romano doesn’t have the energy to argue about it in his head because Spain is brushing his hair back again.

But he’s still ignoring that one, dumb stupid idiot bastard curl, and it’s driving him mental. The Spaniard is saying something to him now but Romano can’t hear him over his pulse thumping over and over in his temples. The errant tress is sticking out proudly like his erection would and drying in the warm air, and it’s just _begging_ to be touched.

The other part of him that’s begging to be touched is his small, prepubescent erection. The Italian can feel it twitching between his soapy, slippery thighs, and every so often he shifts them, rubs them together in order to get some relief.

But it’s not enough. It’s like an itch that’s underneath his skin – he can scratch and scratch at it but it won’t get any better, won’t do much to alleviate it. His mind is screaming at the Spaniard to pay attention to his curl. He knows it’ll make him cum but as long as he keeps quiet and tries to still his body as much as he can Spain won’t know. The water is dark and murky and will camouflage his semen well.

Spain leans over him to rinse the brush again and his warm breath rolls over Romano’s neck like the wind that rustles the leaves of the tomato vines in the heated July evenings. Romano presses his thighs tighter to his erection as it throbs painfully. He hates how the older man makes his body do things like that.

The water moves against him as it is stirred, making his balls sway, sneaking its way into the crevices between his legs and trickling over his member playfully.  It’s a weird feeling, but he likes it. He just wishes it was something more solid hitting him. Something less teasing. Something, maybe, like the warm hand sitting firm on his back.

“Hey! What’s with that?!” Romano cries as Spain pushes lightly against him, uses the Italian to straighten himself up. He tries to wiggle away from his touch.

“Ah, sorry Roma. Boss didn’t get much sleep last night. I’m tired.” To emphasize the point he lets his head loll forwards and his forehead to rest on the brunette’s shoulder. Romano’s body goes rigid as if his spine has been replaced with a steel pole.

“Th-that’s not my problem! Get off!” More wriggling, he just wants to get away from Spain’s breath tickling his skin and leaving goose pimples in its wake. Making the hairs on his back rise and sending the shivers into overdrive, the throbs in his penis ten times worse.

Spain chuckles as his hand plops into the water and swirls it round, and the brunette grows nervous because he can hear himself yelling ‘get off’ again, and he’s taking it wildly out of context. Spain… Spain wouldn’t… would he? No way, he was a kid! As the Spaniard starts his humming up again Romano becomes acutely aware of the face pressed to his back.

He can feel the odd combination of soft skin with the short, scratchy hairs forming on his chin and cheeks rubbing against him. He can feel Spain’s crooked nose, humped slightly in the bridge and leaning ever so slightly to the left from that fight he got into with Holland last month. His nose had been broken but he’d just grinned and set it straight as Romano shouted at the eyebrow bastard and tried to cover his concern with irritation at the blood staining Spain’s shirt, and the washing he’d have to do. He was only flushed because seeing blood did that to him. It was most certainly not because the tanned Spaniard was freakin’ _hot_ when he fought, feral grin in place, bearing his canines.

He can feel the corner of Spain’s mouth, which is tugged up a little. Feel the firm lips pressing into his skin. His mind plays with the idea and before Romano knows it Spain is kissing his back all over, tasting his skin, trailing his tongue up from his tailbone along his spine and resting between his shoulder blades, suckling on the ridge where they protrude from his skin. Painting his back in little red marks that fade within seconds of their creation, because Romano doesn’t need hickies or love bites to know that he is Spa-

 _Stop it!_

Romano doesn’t register the warm murky water no longer surrounding his lower half, instead the cooler air. Droplets trickle down his body and re-join the liquid lapping at his calves, the little waves splashing over him. His breath comes in fast pants, his heart drumming erratically as his realises that he is no longer sitting down. Realises that his erection is no longer concealed.

“Whoa, Roma!” Spain exclaims. “What’s wrong?”

What _is_ wrong? The fact that every thought he has turns to a fantasy about his boss? That he wants his carer so badly, his carer whose human age would be twenty-two, whereas his is only twelve?  That his caretaker has a penis as well? Oh yeah. His penis.

Nausea hits the Italian then from moving so suddenly, and he struggles with deciding whether to keel over and grip the rim of the tub or make an attempt to cover his hard on. Spain’s stool squeaks a little against the tiled floor as he stands up, and in his peripheral vision Romano can see him coming round to the side of the large bath, and he is young, naïve, so keeping his dignity (he tries not to think on how Spain has a very unrestricted view to his backside) he clasps his hands over his penis and squeezes and tries to cover every bit of himself that he can.

“Roma…? Romano.”

Spain’s words slither through his mind. The ache at the back of his head that had dulled comes back full force and he feels as though his brain has been replaced with wet sand. His head is heavy. Spain’s palms are at his biceps, his fingers curling around his skinny arms as he calls his charge’s name again and turns him so that he and Spain are front to front. The touch sends a violent shudder through Romano’s tiny body and without helping it his hand grinds against him, and _God it feels so good_.

The brunette keeps his gaze hooded and low as he moves his crotch against his cupped palm again. If only his hands were bigger and calloused like Spain’s… “ _Spain… Spain…_ ” Spain! Romano’s eyes snap open and he looks up to find the tanned man eyeing his body incredulously, olive green orbs lingering on his barely concealed junk, lips slightly parted. 

“It’s… OK, Roma. I’m here,” the Spaniard murmurs as his eyes trail up from his groin, over his torso, meeting his eyes. Romano doesn’t know what lust looks like, but he is pretty sure that the man’s face is masked by it. It frightens him. Spain never brought a lover home once he became his charge, but the Italian can only imagine how passionate he would be in bed… “What happened? You just stood up so suddenly.”  

Romano is kind of glad that Spain is holding him so steady, but kind of not seeing as his concussion wants him to vomit. He sways on his feet and tries to keep his breakfast down.

“N-nothing! Nothing happened!” he shouts, and his cock throbs just to drive the point home. “I’m… tried. And I feel sick. I want to go lie down. I can fix my hair later tonight.”

 _‘I’m horny, and it’s because of you. I want you to fuck me.’_ Is what he hears in his mind but glancing up he confirms that Spain is not telepathic because he just looks him up and down with concern, making sure he’s OK, and grins. Spain also ruffles his hair.

A gasp and a mewl that comes loud and somewhat strangled, like its owner is trying to keep it supressed, tear themselves from Romano’s throat and he can’t help but rub fervently at himself as the sides of Spain’s fingers clamp around his curl tightly at the base, drag it from side to side and twist it slightly as he brings his hand off his head. The brunette’s skin prickles all over and his hormones race through his body. His knees are weak and it’s like his entire skeletal structure has been removed and replaced with jelly.

A shudder ripples through his body, and he can feel the warmth in the pit of his belly coiling, his balls tightening. His dick twitches uncontrollably and he can feel the warm head spewing pre-cum, now that it’s no longer being washed away with the water. He bites the inside of his bottom lip, rolling the flesh between his teeth as he tries to stay still. It’s pointless though. He knows he’s coming.

It’s been a while now, but the Italian can still vaguely remember what his first orgasm felt like. It was unceremonious, dull. It was already over the time he realised it had happened. Just a little bit of rubbing, it had felt good, and then he took his hand away and watched as his semen bubbled from the tip of his penis. His vision hadn’t whited out nor did he vocalise his pleasure like pervert France had said one would when they orgasmed. For a while Romano doubted he’d even had an orgasm, but France had also said that when a man came, well, something _came_ out of him…

That was over two years ago but Romano can still remember how it felt to cum from such poor stimulus. How even though it wasn’t earth-shattering it still left his dick a little sore from all the palming, and meant that his couldn’t get off for another day. He’s barely touched himself, but he is still very young, and emptying his balls now would mean not getting to later. And coming dry never did feel good in his opinion.

But he knows he’s going to cum. Spain touched his stupid oversensitive curl and he’s going to climax and it won’t even feel freaking good, because he can’t properly jack himself off whilst he orgasms, like he likes to do. He has to breathe through his nose like a bull for fear of moaning Spain’s name if his mouth were to be open, which he likes it to be. It makes him feel a little bit dirty, and it makes the entire act of masturbating that much more pleasurable, as if forcing himself to moan when he doesn’t really need to strengthens the fantasy he delves into as he gets off. 

Nerves under the palms of the Spaniard’s hands alight, like the ones in his groin, Romano’s body tenses and he screws his eyes shut and the muscles in his abdomen and thighs quiver and spasm. Spain’s thumbs rub in small strokes over his thin arms and the Italian copies the movement over his member.

“Alright,” Romano noted that his voice was still thick with concern, perhaps something else. “I guess you hit your head harder than I thought. It was a few hours ago, you should have been better by now… But OK.” His voice returned to its usual overly cheerful tone. “Just hang on a tick…”

 _Think of France, not of Spain, think of France, not of Spain, think of Fra- oh! Oh, fuuuck…!_ And there it was again. That stupid goddamned bastard fucker of a brush. But Spain wasn’t avoiding his curl anymore.

Romano’s eyes snap open then and for all he cares his boss can go eat dick cheese because fucking God, _yes,_ the way the bristles surrounded that stubborn tress of hair and dragged over it was just amazing. Indescribable. He could feel everything, but his mind blacked out from the intensity of it. Every single one of his senses heightened, especially touch. And God, did he touch.

He let his grip over his himself lax and moved his hands away slightly, his erection standing proud and twitching in the warm room. It isn’t on its own for long, small fingers enveloping it and firming, gliding through the pre-cum and over the shaft. Romano’s curl is caught in the brush, which is sitting atop his head, stilled. His eyes slither open and he glances up at his Boss. The way heat swells and aches in his chest and belly and makes him moan when he does, overcome with passion for the older man kind of makes him wish he hadn’t.

Spain is breathing heavy, yet quietly through his nose, his eyes wide and flickering between Romano’s crotch and face, like he’s not sure which he wants to watch. His tongue darts out and wets his flushed lips. There’s a faint blush peppering his cheeks.

He opts watching him masturbate, for which Romano is grateful because it allows him to stare at Spain’s face, and even though he himself is blushing fiercely it’s a teeny tiny bit less embarrassing than it would be if their eyes were locked. Not that this entire day hasn’t been completely embarrassing so far or anything.

His dick isn’t that big, maybe four inches when erect, so it makes sliding his hand in an ‘on off’ way over it difficult. Still, the friction is beautiful and makes need burn at the base of his penis. He thumbs the head, rubbing the top and over the slit, his arousal scalding him.

Spain’s look of astonishment is the centre of Romano’s attention, like his vision has tunnelled and that’s all he can see. But he can tell that Spain has yet to move the brush away from his hair, see in his peripheral vision the arm hovering above his head. He’s frozen, in shock or something. Perhaps at seeing his little _tomate_ doing something so _filthy._

He glances down then; feeling kind of shamed but also oh-so-good, and notices the tenting in Spain’s pants. It sends a tremor through his body. Is that bastard enjoying the show or something?

Romano’s pumping loses its rhythm, its steadiness. He recognises the feeling in his member as his orgasm mounting, and tries to speed up his movements. He doesn’t really need to, though.

Maybe the oblivious bastard caught on. Maybe he was just removing the brush from his hair. But just as the Italian felt like he was going to explode Spain tugged the brush and it raked over his erogenous zone and he was over the edge, thrusting into his fist and panting and moaning. Cum bubbled thickly from the head, dribbling over his hands.

His eyes are shut tight, so he can’t see what the Spaniard above him is doing. Just as he is going to chance a glare at the older man, the electric jolt runs from his curl to his dick and Romano wails as Spain brings the brush over his curl again and again and again.

The Italian’s legs start to tremble and he’s worried he’ll fall and worsen his concussion. He’s still caught up in his orgasm, and his eyelids don’t know whether they want to close or stay open, flickering shut sporadically. A clatter, Romano forces his eyes to stay open. The brush bounces from the rim of the tub and into the water, splashing a little over his calf and the brunette watches it idly, feeling kind of irritated that his curl isn’t going to be getting attention anymore and oh, _God_! _Ohgodohgodohgod_!

Romano’s knees give out and he falls against his boss as the Spaniard seals his lips over the base of his curl, tongue pushing the rest of the tress to the side of his mouth and sucking and working his lips against his scalp with total disregard to the oil and dust. Romano can’t even get enough breath to vocalise his pleasure, his heart beating hard and fast in his chest. He buries his face in Spain’s shirt, mouth open and salivating all over it. His hands find their place at Spain’s sides, gripping the material tight, his knuckles white.

“Haa.. _haa…_ Bast _aa… Aaah_...” Romano breathes slowly, his nerves coming down from the high, melts in his post-orgasm state. Spain presses his body as close to Romano’s as he can and pushes his right knee between the boy’s thighs, his clothed leg against the other’s softening dick and rubs up against it. Romano finds it a little strange, but doesn’t stop himself from grinding back.

  

  1. The Spaniard sucks hard on Romano’s curl and hums, sending vibrations all over Romano’s head and down his spine, tingling in his tailbone and his hips, running along his pubic bone to in between his legs. He can feel his cock twitch against Spain’s muscled leg, but he doesn’t want another erection. He’s too spent and exhausted, and with Spain’s scent filling his lungs he just wants to be dry and clean and curled up in his boss’ massive bed adorned with a dozen feather down pillows and blankets of the finest silk and cotton.   
  



Spain’s left hand skitters over the skin of his back, drawing little patterns with his nails. He presses into the sensitive part of his waist and makes him shudder. His calloused fingers rub his hip bone and push into his soft, slightly fatty tummy. Down and down, till they get to his half-hard penis and take it, gliding and pulling and rubbing his glans, dancing in the left over cum.

The brunette turns his head to the side, nuzzling his cheek to the flesh beneath it and breathes hard. Even through Spain’s thin shirt he can feel its warmth. He wishes Spain was naked against him, kissing his lips chastely and rubbing his sides and _whoa what the fuck is he thinking? What the_ fuck _is he_ doing?

His eyes blink open and suddenly he’s very aware of what has just transpired. Very aware of the erection pressing just slightly against his tummy and very aware of Spain’s hands rubbing his lower back and sides. The way his plump lips are rolling his curl in his mouth no longer feels pleasurable and the warm post-orgasm buzz in his abdomen turns to a mixture of dread-regret-embarrassment. His body stiffens, and he feels like he’s died but kept his consciousness as the rigor-mortis sets in. He ceases his rutting.

Spain senses the tension in his charge’s body and slowly, slowly pulls his mouth from the curl. His right hand glides up over his spine and to his hair, around and to his jaw. His fingers trace to his chin and tilt his head up, but Romano refuses to meet his eyes. He grip on Spain’s shirt goes slack.

 “Roma? Roma, is there something wrong?” concern laces his question, it swirls in his eyes along with affection as the Italian looks up into them. Moments go by.

“…this,” he murmurs after minutes of just standing and looking up at the man, “this is wrong…” This _is_ wrong, isn’t it? Wrong on so many levels, goes against so many of God’s Rules. He’s just going into puberty now. He’s still a kid. Sexual relations when still a minor with an elder is absolutely disgusting. Sexual relations _with a man_ is absolutely disgusting _._ If he wasn’t a nation and he could die he would go to Hell.

“Pardon?”

“You sick bastard! You’re sick! You’re _sick!_ ” it was easier for him to think that everything was Spain’s fault. That it was his fault he was lusting after him. _Disgusting disgusting disgusting._

He digs his fingers into the muscle under his hands and pushes Spain away. Or rather, attempted to. The Spaniard hardly moves at all, but pulls his leg and hand away anyway. The mood in the room changed from soft, heated to rigid and icy.

“Romano…” the pad of his thumb brushes over his cheek, and the brunette swats at his hand. 

“No! Just… Just stop!” he moved his hands to Spain’s belly and pushed it again. He squeezed his eyes shut. He didn’t want to look at the confused and slightly hurt expression on that handsome bastard’s face. “Just… _Fuck off_!”

That caught him off guard. Romano never swore. Not aloud, and certainly not at him. Immediately he drops his hand and takes a few steps back. The Spaniard sucks in a breath, ready to ask what he had done wrong when the Italian steps out of the bath and shoulders past him, taking and wrapping his towel around him and running out.

Maybe keeping the lamp from his conquistador days wasn’t worth losing whatever he may have had.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Sigh. Shitty ending was shit. You may stone me. Eventual second part is eventual.


End file.
